


live in living color

by pledispristin



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Actors, Celebrities, M/M, Met Gala, Museum dates, Stylists - Freeform, gratuitous references to art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-05 06:50:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14612013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pledispristin/pseuds/pledispristin
Summary: Mark crosses his arms. “Donghyuck is pretentious.”Donghyuck glares at him through dark-rimmed glasses, from over his battered copy ofThe Picture of Dorian Gray. “Excuse me?”





	live in living color

**Author's Note:**

> so i wrote this in a day and i had to post it before the met gala hype died down so its unbetaed, i'm sorry! i blame kaya for encouraging this so hard i had to
> 
> i hope you enjoy it, though! if any of the references are confusing you, i've linked all the artwork and fashion referenced in the note below
> 
> title from the [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mh3NVJzijQU) of the same name

“I have an announcement,” Johnny says when Mark walks in.

The first thing he notices is that Donghyuck is there on the sofa in Johnny’s office, reading a book and not paying much attention. The second thing he notices is the envelope and letter on the middle of Johnny’s desk, which is strange because Johnny doesn’t like clutter, which meant it was probably important.

He takes a seat and reaches for the letter. “What’s this?”

“Rising star Mark Lee,” Donghyuck drawls, not looking up from his book, sarcastic but without his usual dismissal, “you have been invited to the Met Gala. Which means you’ll need to meet with me later today so we can discuss.”

It takes Mark a couple of seconds to register that Donghyuck is _happy_ about this. (It’s hard to tell with Donghyuck. He kind of said most things in the same tone.) “Discuss what, exactly?”

“Well, I have to know who to get into contact with?” Donghyuck says. “You know. To get your clothes made.”

Mark coughs. “I was kind of—can’t I just wear the same kind of thing you put me in for every event?” he asks. “Hell, why are they sending the invites out so early? It’s February, and this gala isn’t even until May.”

Donghyuck lets out a loud sigh, putting down his book to glare at Mark. He feels slightly as if he’s missing something. “You can’t wear a _black tux_ to the _Met Gala_ ,” he says. “That’s, like, career suicide in the fashion world.”

“I’m an actor, not a model,” Mark says. “I don’t think I _need_ to maintain my career in the fashion world.” Donghyuck rolls his eyes and goes back to his book. 

“Look, imagine that you threw a fancy dress party,” Johnny says. “A costume party, I guess. It’s not _necessary_ that somebody come dressed on theme, but also you look like a giant dickhead if you _don’t_ come on theme.”

Mark frowns. “I just don’t see why it’s so important,” he says. “I’d rather not go all out for an event.”

“Donghyuck thinks it’s important,” Johnny points out. 

Mark crosses his arms. “Donghyuck is pretentious.”

Donghyuck glares at him through dark-rimmed glasses, from over his battered copy of _The Picture of Dorian Gray_. “Excuse me?”

“I just think it would be nice,” Johnny presses, “for you to appear at an event that isn’t related to whatever film you’re promoting. Would get you some more promotion. And there’s never really Asian people invited to these things, anyway.”

“Do you want people to be like _oooh, that’s a gorgeous third generation Korean man_ , or do you want people to be like _go back to China if you’re not on theme, bastard_?” Donghyuck asks.

Mark blinks. “I’m not Chinese,” he says finally.

“I know,” Donghyuck says. “But _they_ don’t.”

 

When Mark gets home, Donghyuck has commanded the kitchen table with photos and catalogues and his laptop, his hair pushed back by what Mark assumes is constant running of fingers through it.

After Mark had hit big, he’d been given the option to buy out a place of his own, but it had felt terribly lonely. Donghyuck had been his college roommate for the five months of freshman year that he’d actually attended, and he’d been very easy to work with too. When the time had come for him to select a personal stylist (“Someone you trust,” Johnny had said, “who has some kind of background in fashion and most of all understands your personal tastes”), he’d called Donghyuck, who’d answered with, “Yes, but only if you pay me and also let me finish my Bachelor’s degree.” Mark hadn’t complained.

“Do you not want food?” he asks now, nodding to the clutter taking up the kitchen.

Donghyuck blinks. “I forgot I needed that,” he says. “Can you order something? I’m kind of busy right now.”

Mark nods, orders takeout, and then asks, “What’re you up to?”

Donghyuck hums. “Trying to find something you’ll suit,” he says, “that’s on theme enough without making you intensely uncomfortable. Someone is going to have to revitalize the shapes of men’s fashion, but I’m pretty sure it’s not going to be you, and it’d be better for you to look somewhat basic but just as awkward as usual than to look like a total fish out of water.”

Mark blinks. “What do you mean, _just as awkward as usual_?” he asks.

Donghyuck laughs. “Being awkward is part of your charm,” he says. “Gives you the whole boy next door thing you’ve got going on.”

Mark hadn’t even been aware he _had_ that going on. “I see,” he says.

Donghyuck grinned. “Don’t worry, it’s cute. You should own it,” he assures him, and Mark doesn’t know why it feels more loaded than a regular compliment. “How do you feel about this?” he asks suddenly, raising a photo of a very, very bedazzled priest, dressed from head to toe in white and gold.

Mark chokes. “I don’t think so,” he says weakly.

“I figured,” Donghyuck says. “I could never put you in that, anyway, I don’t want to cover your hair.”

Mark peers at the image again. “Do I have to dress like a priest?” he asks, feeling all the energy leaving his body physically.

“The theme is Catholicism,” Donghyuck says. “But I don’t think you’re the creepy priest type. You’re more like an angel. Baby Jesus, born from the immaculate conception.”

Mark flushes, though he doesn’t know why. “I don’t see the point of this,” he says instead.

“I mean, yeah, it’s just another way to flaunt your riches, but it’s pretty nice to get an invitation,” Donghyuck says. “And it’s pretty much the biggest night in fashion. Not to mention the agency have already paid for your ticket, and let me just say, they are _not_ cheap, so you don’t want the money going to waste.”

“I mean,” Mark says. “I’ve never even _been_ to the Met. I don’t understand what the event is _for_.”

Donghyuck drops the catalogue he’s perusing on the floor. “You’ve never been to the _Met_?” he asks, as if in disbelief.

“It’s just a museum,” Mark says, crossing his arms. “Have you?”

“Mark, the first thing I did when I got into New York was go to the Met,” Donghyuck says. “Haven’t—haven’t you been here for a while now?”

“I grew up in Vancouver,” Mark says.

“Sure,” Donghyuck says. “But I’m currently halfway through my junior year, and we started college in the same year, which means that you’ve been here for two and a half years now. And you’ve _never been to the Met_.”

“What’s so hard to believe about it?” Mark asks. “I don’t like art museums.”

The doorbell rings and Donghyuck stands up to get it. “Tomorrow,” he says on his way to the door. “I’m going to take you down to the Met whether you _like it or not_ , and you are going to _enjoy it_.” He pays the delivery man and takes the food into the kitchen, muttering something under his breath about _lives in New York_ and _never been to the Met_ and _stupid boy_.

 

Donghyuck wasn’t joking, Mark discovers.

They set out at ten in the morning, which Mark thinks is a horrible time because he doesn’t understand art when he’s well-rested, let alone when he’s still half asleep. Donghyuck insists, though, that the lines would only get bigger and they had to be there as early as possible. Still, there’s something to be said for how excited Donghyuck is—he’s smiling, and he doesn’t sound the least bit sarcastic, and when they finally get into a taxi Mark notices that his knee is bouncing.

And, he thinks, maybe Donghyuck could make him care about art and history. If anyone could, it would be Donghyuck.

He’s a very eager tour guide, Mark will give him that. It’s a lot more entertaining to watch Donghyuck giving his own commentary, interspersed with random facts and explanations, than to watch someone he doesn’t know or listen to some audio tour.

“It’s completely ridiculous,” Donghyuck says, walking through a wing of the gallery that Mark vaguely remembers as being someone’s private collection that they’d donated. “Look at this, Mark, there’s _two Renoirs_. How is it fair that someone should _own_ that?”

“Artists need to get money,” Mark says.

“Sure,” Donghyuck says. “But, like, if a piece of art is that famous, it should be in the public domain.”

“It is, though,” Mark says. “We’re looking at it right now.”

Donghyuck rolls his eyes. “I’m not talking about this,” he says. “I’m talking about people who hoard artwork in their private collections, as if it makes them any richer to flaunt it, when society could be bettered if these were free to view. Van Goghs and Remembrandts and Caravaggios—hell, Munch’s _Scream_ is privately owned, and everyone knows that one.”

Mark blushes furiously throughout the modern art wing, because everywhere he looks _someone_ is nude, and blushes even harder when Donghyuck drags him to the African art wing by the hand. “You’re blushing,” he says.

“There were so many _nudes_ ,” Mark says. 

Donghyuck bursts out laughing. It feels unsuitable, because everyone else around them is silently surveying art, but Mark doesn’t want him to stop. “That’s part of art, you know,” he says. “The naked body.”

“You’re an art major,” Mark says.

“Yeah,” Donghyuck says. “What’s your point.”

“Have you ever—” Mark begins, then flushes. “I mean. Like. For your art, and stuff, have you ever—”

“Obviously,” Donghyuck says. “Anatomy and shit. You do realize they pay people to come in and pose nude for college classes?”

Mark doesn’t think he’s ever been more red in the face. “I see,” he says.

“We can skip the Greco-Roman art if you’re that prudish,” Donghyuck jokes. 

Mark blinks. “Weren’t the Romans, like, classy?” he asks.

Donghyuck bursts out laughing. “Mark,” he says. “You really have no idea, huh?” 

(He soon learns that no, the Romans were not classy, and wow, it must have been so awkward to have to carve a naked man into a chunk of marble. “That’s art, baby,” Donghyuck says over his shoulder as Mark stares, scandalized, at a sculpture of a naked athlete.)

 

They’re sitting in a café at the end of the day, Mark drinking an espresso and Donghyuck drinking some iced sugar thing, when Donghyuck asks, “So what did you think?”

Mark shrugs. “All the babies looked like old men,” he says,

Donghyuck rolls his eyes. “You mean all the baby Jesuses looked like old men. It’s because people in that era believed that Christ was born as a little man,” he says, “because he was perfectly formed at his birth and thus didn’t need to change.”

“Holy shit,” Mark says. “So he just came out of the womb looking like a creepy old man? If I was Mary, I’d have dropped him.”

Donghyuck laughs. “The only reason people started painting babies as babies is because people started asking painters to paint their _actual_ children. Obviously, nobody wanted a creepy old uncle hanging up in their house, so the tradition finished around about there. Also, around the Reformation, the idea of original sin became less prevalent so children became seen as fragile creatures of—you’re not listening to me.”

“I am,” Mark says. “I just don’t really understand what you’re saying.” Donghyuck rolls his eyes. “Okay, how come some of the women looked like men?”

“Harder to get hold of models,” Donghyuck says. “It was easy to get the facial features right, but it was indecent for women to pose nude even though there were some willing at the time, and they couldn’t study a cadaver either because…well, it was a female body.”

“Huh,” Mark says. “I figured there was something a bit more juicy.”

The corners of Donghyuck’s lips curve upwards. “Well, a lot of them were likely to be gay,” he says. “I wrote a paper on that, you know, for an art history class last semester. Got an A and everything.”

Mark laughs. “Final question. Why is Jesus so white?”

“You know, all your questions are really simple to answer,” Donghyuck says, but there’s no malice in it. His eyes are shining, and Mark finds that he rather likes this side of Donghyuck, who rants about art history with words that Mark doesn’t fully understand. “It was convenient to the church to have a white Jesus. Made oppressing people of colour a lot easier. Constantine said he was white, so he was white.”

“I figured that one would be more interesting, too,” Mark says. 

“It probably is,” Donghyuck says. “I just haven’t read as much about it.”

Mark laughs. “Thanks, though, for taking me. It was nice. Even though I didn’t really get much of it.”

 

Walking the Oscars red carpet has to be one of the most stressful things Mark has ever done.

Despite being the young co-star of the film, Mark had argued his way into not doing interviews alone. Most of the time, he interviewed with Jaemin and Yeri, but occasionally he did one with Seulgi or one with the director, Taeyong. But now that he was on the Oscars red carpet, people had been dragging him to solo interviews and he really didn’t know how to deal with it.

He wished Donghyuck was here. He’d seen Mark off half an hour ago after fitting him into his suit, and he’d tied the Windsor knot of his tie because Mark didn’t know how. 

“The film is a fantasy film, isn’t it?” the interviewer asks him. “Do you think that’ll affect your chances tonight?”

“At the end of the day,” Mark says, hoping his nervousness isn’t obvious, “we aren’t here to win awards, or fame, or anything. Taeyong has crafted this incredible story and even if we don’t win _anything_ , I’ll be honoured to have been a part of it.” Donghyuck’s voice plays in his head: _Being awkward is part of your charm. You should own it._

“Do you think there’s any truth to the film having symbolic worth?” the interviewer asks.

Mark straightens. _Own it,_ he thinks. “Frankly, I’ve no idea what went through Taeyong’s head when he was writing it, but I think it does bring up some issues that are experienced by Asians and Asian-Americans, especially with having a mostly Asian cast and crew. I think regardless, though, the story really stands on its own.”

“This year sees more Asians nominated than any year before because of your film,” the interviewer says. “Are you proud to be part of that legacy?”

Mark swallows, because this interview has gone a lot deeper than he’s comfortable with and he wishes someone who actually knew how to answer these questions was here. “It’s insane,” he says finally. “I’m really proud of the whole cast and crew for putting this incredible film together.”

“You’re only twenty right now, making you one of the youngest nominees ever for Best Actor,” the interviewer says. “How do you fare your chances tonight?”

“If I’m honest, not well,” Mark says. The interviewer laughs. “I’m up against some people that I’ve admired for a very long time, and against some people whose films this year completely stunned me. Really, it’s enough of an honor to be here, at the Oscars, to accept this prize.”

The interviewer nods. “ _Neo Culture Technology_ is nominated for a whopping seven Academy Awards tonight at the Oscars.” She smiles at him and moves onto another person, and Mark feels his arm grabbed by none other than Na Jaemin—Best Supporting Actor nominee, and general nuisance. “You’re so humble, Mark,” he says, which is as good a greeting as _hello_ when it comes to Jaemin. “I spent two minutes telling the press about how my parents were completely stunned about my death scene because I never told them I’d die.”

Mark laughs. “Please, Jaemin, never die in my arms again.”

Jaemin winks. “Can’t make any promises,” he says. “Come on. Me and Yeri are trying to hide from the interviewers because we can’t figure out how to tell them that we don’t understand the raw genius of Lee Taeyong.”

Mark laughs and follows him. “Any idea who’s gonna win tonight?”

“I’m tracking the betting polls,” Yeri says, having appeared out of nowhere to make up the last of their trio. “We’re on track to win for cinematography and screenplay, even though I hope we don’t win screenplay because _Get Out_ totally deserves that one as much as I love our dear director.”

Mark laughs. “That one was good,” he admits. “But I think we deserve all the Oscars. Except Best Actor, because I wasn’t that good.”

Yeri rolls her eyes. “Let’s go in. They put the three of us together, so it won’t be _as_ awful as it could potentially be.”

They’re having a conversation when the ceremony starts, and don’t stop, either, because there’s no way people would be expecting them to stay completely silent for the _entire_ show. “Joohyun, is in shambles over the Met Gala,” Yeri confesses. “She still won’t let me dye my hair blonde. I said to her, Joohyun, what will you do if I dye it, and she said she’d quit, and I said she’s the only stylist I’ll ever trust, and she said _well, you’d better not dye your hair then_.”

“I told Taeil that I’d be crucified if I wore a tuxedo,” Jaemin says. “He said that crucificxion is totally a Catholic thing so it’s on theme anyway.” 

“Mine is the opposite,” Mark says. “I’ve had to veto so many avant-garde priest outfits.” Donghyuck had been calling up fashion designers for the last two weeks, having loud firm conversations on the phone while Mark perused film synopses that Johnny had given him. He was pretty sure the designers had no idea that Donghyuck was so young, and was kind of looking forward to the looks on their faces when they realized Donghyuck was Mark’s age.

“Your stylist is _Donghyuck_ , though,” Yeri says. “Donghyuck is weak for you. Joohyun thinks I should dress in chain mail.”

Mark frowns. “What do you mean, Donghyuck is weak for me?” he asks.

Jaemin coughs. Yeri stares at him in disbelief. Seulgi shoots them a disapproving look that says something along the lines of _shut up_ , which the three of them promptly ignore. 

“You can’t be serious,” Jaemin says. “You haven’t noticed?”

“Noticed what?” Mark says.

Jaemin and Yeri share a glance that Mark can’t read. “Never mind,” Yeri says. “Oh, look, it’s the Best Actress announcement, maybe Seulgi will win it.”

The obvious distraction annoys Mark, and he wants to argue against it, but then he’s standing up and clapping because Seulgi _did_ win Best Actress.

 

Donghyuck is still awake when Mark gets back, his laptop in his lap and assorted papers surrounding him on the couch.

“Isn’t there an after-party?” he asks, half distracted.

“Yeah,” Mark says. “But I’m underage. And I missed you.”

Technically, Mark had the extra tickets if he needed them, but as it turned out they were unnecessary. His grandmother was too old to make the trip from Vancouver to Los Angeles, his mother was working, and his sister had school. And his dad—well, he wasn’t in the picture, and Mark wasn’t exactly going to reach out to him now. He’d offered them to Donghyuck, who’d politely declined, before passing them on to Taeyong, who apparently brought out an entire army of family members.

Donghyuck lowers the laptop, squinting at him. “You didn’t,” he says. “I saw you when the camera cut to you. You didn’t look like you missed me.”

Mark crosses his arms. “I did,” he says. “Trust me. We were discussing the Met thing, anyway. Joohyun wants to put Yeri in chainmail.”

“Perhaps you could be a knight,” Donghyuck muses. “Not sure who would want to make a custom haute couture armor, but—”

“I’m not going as a knight,” Mark says. “People already have their conspiracy theories about me dating Yeri, I don’t want them to grow.”

“You could do worse,” Donghyuck points out.

There’s a pang in Mark’s chest that he can’t quite identify. “She’s lovely,” he says honestly. “But not my type.”

“What is?” Donghyuck asks.

“Guys,” Mark says. He’s not sure what compels him to say it, because he’s never said it to anyone before—his family figured it out without him having to say it, and nobody else seemed to care as much. It wasn’t that he was horribly closeted, or unsure of himself—it just never really mattered. 

Donghyuck blinks. “Oh,” he says. “You were a convincing straight guy. That’s what I thought you were.” Mark doesn’t have time to consider why Donghyuck was wondering whether or not he was straight, because then he adds, “I forgot to say congratulations.”

“I didn’t win anything,” Mark says.

“You were nominated, though,” Donghyuck says. “Besides. You got a shoutout from Jaemin in his speech, and that’s worth a congratulations.”

“It’s nice to know I was a good person to die in the arms of,” Mark says. 

Donghyuck laughs. “Now that you’re up, I guess, how do you feel about this?” He raises a couple photos.

“That’s womenswear,” Mark says. It’s a painfully obvious statement. 

Donghyuck shakes his head in response. “The designers have offered to custom make male versions of them,” he says. “Unless you would rather wear a skirt.”

“No offence to anyone who would,” Mark says, “but it’s really not my thing to wear skirts. I don’t have the legs to pull them off.”

Donghyuck bursts out laughing. “How do you feel about these styles, then?”

“Before I select,” Mark says. “When you say the designers have offered, do you mean that you yelled at them to make more dynamic menswear because men’s fashion is painfully boring and your client deserves better?”

Donghyuck flushes. “No,” he says. “I said it over email.”

 

As it turns out, fitting for something custom made turns out to be even worse than fitting for a tux.

The designer is in the middle of a lengthy description of the outfit and how it links with the theme when Donghyuck asks, “Do you know anywhere I can get hold of a crown of thorns? I feel like if we’re going to go for the Jesus imagery, it has to be a bit more head-on.”

“Try Etsy,” the designer says, slightly ruffled. When they’d entered, the designer had asked if Mr. Lee Donghyuck was unavailable, and Mark had taken a lot of pleasure in the look on his face when Donghyuck had said _that’s me_. “Now, Mark, if you could hold your arms up so I can take your measurements for the shirt…”

Donghyuck has stood up to peruse the catalogues that the designer has lying around, each one of a different collection. “You’ve headed all these collections?” he asks.

“I’ve worked here for a long time,” the designer says. “A lot of them I just worked on a little bit, but I like keeping the catalogues.” Mark frowns. “Mark, I need to measure your shoulder span now.”

“How’d you get into it?” Donghyuck asks.

The designer laughs. “Young man,” he says. “If you’re looking for a job, they’re very hard to find.” He nods at Mark. “Clearly you have a good eye, though, if you’ve been styling Mark here for all his events, and having the experience’ll help wonders.”

“Have you always been working here?” Donghyuck asks.

“I worked at other fashion houses before I founded my own,” the designer says. “A lot of this, though? That was luck. You’d be better off doing something a bit less risky.”

There’s a pang in Mark’s chest as he watches Donghyuck going through books, but he can’t quite name it.

 

In the end, he calls Jeno.

Technically, Jeno isn’t Mark’s friend—he’s Jaemin’s best friend, first and foremost, but he’d managed to sneak onto set far too many times to not get acquaintanced with Yeri and Jaemin. And Mark trusts Jeno. He can’t quite say why, but he does—Jeno gives off this aura of trustworthiness.

“Okay,” Jeno says when they sit down in a café, somewhere where Mark could talk without anyone listening in. “So you think your stylist wants to leave and work in actual fashion once he graduates and you’re scared of being left in the dust?”

It sounds stupid when Jeno says it like that, but Mark nods. “I don’t—yeah, that’s it.”

Jeno swallows. “I mean, think about it like this. Clearly this guy isn’t just a stylist to you, right?”

“I mean, he’s my friend,” Mark says. “And my roommate. I can’t imagine working with anyone who isn’t him, you know? Not just because he’s a good stylist, which he is because he just _gets me_ , like he knows what things I’d be comfortable wearing and what things I’d loo good in, but also because he’s my friend and he’s supportive and I like doing things with him outside of work and I don’t want to lose that.”

Jeno stirs the sugar into his coffee, deep in thought. “Can I say something?” he says in the end.

“Yeah,” Mark says.

“You might not like it,” Jeno warns. Mark nods. “It sounds like he’s not just a friend to you, Mark.”

“He’s my best friend,” Mark says.

Jeno swallows. “I don’t think it’s that, either,” he says. “I’ve seen you guys together a couple times, when I went onto set to see Jaemin, and…well, I know some things, you know.”

“Some things about what?” Mark asks.

“Unrequited love,” Jeno says. 

Mark is about to ask who Jeno is in unrequited love with when the meaning of what he’s said settles on him. “I’m not in love with Donghyuck,” he says. “I’m _not_.”

“Think about it,” Jeno says. “You’ll feel better about it once you accept it.”

Mark thinks he had better, because at this point the idea of being in love with Donghyuck sickens him. Sickens him, because there’s no way Donghyuck feels the same way, Donghyuck thought he was _straight_. Sickens him, because it makes so much sense—all the pangs in his chest when Donghyuck smiles at him, the way he’s so happy to listen to Donghyuck talk about things he doesn’t know anything about, the way he finds his gaze catching on Donghyuck when he lets his mind wander.

“Oh,” he says.

“Am I right?” Jeno asks.

“Oh,” Mark repeats. “You’re…you might just be.”

 

It’s Mark’s last fitting, now, and the designer is nowhere to be found.

He’s wearing the clothes, which are really just a three-piece suit but feel so much heavier. He’s never work a suit jacket this _bedazzled_.

“I was thinking maybe glitter?” Donghyuck says from the doorway.

“Sorry?” Mark says.

Donghyuck circles him. “How do you feel about glitter in your hair, Mark?” he asks. “You know. Really highlight the whole ethereal prince thing we have going on.”

“I’m already skeptical about you putting a _authentic crown of thorns_ onto my _head_ ,” Mark says.

“Shush,” Donghyuck says. “It only said authentic to sell it. It came in the delivery today and it’s actually just made of wood. It shouldn’t be too irritating for you, I put it on for like five minutes.”

Donghyuck is jumpy today, like he always is when they’re here for a fitting, like he’s completely restless. And Mark doesn’t know what he’s doing wrong, but clearly being here as Mark’s stylist isn’t enough for Donghyuck, because he’s full of this nervous energy. 

“Do you want to leave?” he blurts out.

Donghyuck frowns at him. “Leave?” he says. “I mean, sure, it’s kind of boring, but I don’t mind—”

“Not leave here,” Mark says. “Leave me. Forever. For another job.”

Donghyuck puts his phone down. “Mark,” he says. “Why would I leave you for another job? Do I look like I have job offers coming in?”

Mark swallows. “You just—the other day, you were asking so many questions about how to get into the fashion industry, and I thought—you must want something better than just being my _stylist_.”

Donghyuck laughs nervously. “Mark,” he says. “That’s—that’s not what’s going on at all. I’m looking for other stuff to do, yeah, but—”

“So you are going to leave,” Mark says. He feels like a petulant child, but he can’t help it. 

Something flares in Donghyuck’s eyes. “If something better comes up, why wouldn’t I?” he asks coolly. “Why does it matter to you? You don’t _own_ me.”

“I know I don’t,” Mark says. “You’re my _friend_.”

Donghyuck stands up, and Mark realizes that he’s seen a frustrated Donghyuck directed at him, but never an _angry_ Donghyuck. It’s one thing to watch him argue with a designer or with a rude agent, and another to watch that anger directed at himself. “If we were really friends, you would be happy for me wanting to better myself,” he says coldly.

Mark feels guilt settle on his shoulders. “Wait,” he says. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I wasn’t going to leave,” Donghyuck says. “Not before you started running around acting like you own me. Did you ever consider, Mark, that me not being your stylist anymore doesn’t have to end our friendship? Did you ever consider that I’m not _leaving you_ , I’m bettering myself?”

Mark is silent. “Hyuck,” he says.

“I was looing for stuff to do in case my role got reduced,” Donghyuck says. “So I could have something on the side. You’re—” The anger is gone now, replaced with something quieter, sadder. “You’re my best friend.”

Mark swallows. “I’m in love with you,” he blurts out. Donghyuck stares at him. “I’m in love with your smile and your mind and your face and everything about you, I just—that wasn’t very romantic, was it?” 

Donghyuck swallows. “Go on,” he says.

“I don’t know how long,” Mark says. “I just—I figured it out recently. And it’s okay—I guess this might make you want to leave even more, because I don’t even know if you like guys or if you like me, and I’m sorry if I fucked up our friendship but I just—”

He’s cut off by Donghyuck’s mouth on his. It takes him a couple of seconds to process what’s happening, and that’s all it takes for Donghyuck to pull apart. “You don’t want to kiss me?” he asks.

“I’m just—” Mark says. “You just—kissed me?”

“Yes,” Donghyuck says. “What did you think, that my mouth just _happened_ to fall on you?”

Mark blinks. “I just—I didn’t know you liked me like that.”

“Mark,” says Donghyuck. “I knew you could be a bit unsure. I didn’t know you were _that_ dense.” He bursts out laughing. “I took you on a _date_.”

“Oh,” Mark says. “To—to the Met?”

“Not to mention all the times we’ve eaten out together,” Donghyuck says. “I thought—I thought you hadn’t mentioned it because you didn’t want to let me down.”

“Are you kidding?” Mark says. “Hyuck, you’re incredible. Anyone would be in love with you.”

Donghyuck laughs nervously. “Mark,” he says. “Will you be my boyfriend?”

Mark steps forward to uneasily take Donghyuck’s hand. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I will.”

 

“You look wonderful tonight,” the interviewer says to him. “It’s a very unconventional choice for menswear.”

“It actually is modified womenswear,” Mark says. “I wanted to make a statement. Or, rather, my stylist wanted to make a statement because I honestly don’t know much about fashion.”

“The crown is giving me _Passion of the Christ_ vibes,” the interviewer says. “It’s a nice touch. You’re very on theme. And is that glitter in your hair?”

“Thank you,” Mark says. “And yes, it is. Really, it’s all been the designer and my stylist’s doing. Donghyuck—my stylist—suggested the glitter, and I rather like it to be honest.”

“Well, I hope you have a good night tonight,” the interviewer says. “That was Oscar nominated actor Mark Lee!”

Yeri links arms with him once he’s at the top of the stairs. She is actually in chain-mail, and Mark can’t help but wonder if that’s heavy. “How does it feel to be known as _Oscar nominated actor Mark Lee_?”

“Can’t help but wish it was _Oscar winning actor Na Jaemin_ ,” Mark says, nodding at Jaemin who’d somehow managed to catch up to him as well. “You both look good.”

Jaemin laughs. “I managed to compromise with Taeil,” he says, beckoning at his printed suit jacket. “But I wish I had a crown, that would be fuc—that would be really good,” he says, noticing cameras still snapping photos of them. 

“Yeri, that looks uncomfortable,” Mark says. 

“Not really, actually,” Yeri says. “I kind of feel like I could stab a man right now, though, so I hope there’s no knives inside or else you two had better watch out.”

Jaemin laughs. “Now, Mark, onto more important things, like you singing Donghyuck’s praises on the red carpet right now.” Mark’s eyes widen. They’re inside the building now, and there’s no cameras anywhere. “Did you figure it out, then?”

Mark laughs. “I think I did,” he says. “I definitely think I did.”

**Author's Note:**

> edit: boyishlyy on twitter made [this](https://twitter.com/boyishlyy/status/995673044441018368?s=21) INCREDIBLE art inspired by the fic so plz look at that bc mark’s full met gala #look is absolutely perfect
> 
> edit 2: hyuckriru on twitter also made [this](https://twitter.com/hyuckriru_23/status/995827663888502784) amazing artwork of mark in the fic!! 
> 
> as promised, all of the references i used
> 
> "raising a photo of a very, very bedazzled priest, dressed from head to toe in white and gold": [this](http://dazedimg.dazedgroup.netdna-cdn.com/480/azure/dazed-prod/1210/8/1218476.jpg) creepy getup from christian dior's f/w 2000 collection
> 
> yeri's dress: [this](https://media1.popsugar-assets.com/files/thumbor/44_p9db0Rox3e6HQll2j1LxEikI/fit-in/1024x1024/filters:format_auto-!!-:strip_icc-!!-/2018/05/07/115/n/1922564/10477b70672c4d46_GettyImages-955769594_master/i/Zendaya-Met-Gala-Dress-2018.jpg) incredible look from zendaya
> 
> jaemin's suit: something like [this](http://cdn01.cdn.justjared.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/05/criss-met/darren-criss-rocks-sparkling-blazer-for-met-gala-01.jpg), but i was envisioning the print from [ariana grande's](https://media1.popsugar-assets.com/files/thumbor/IZh3fdKMHYW7gGw1fLba0aUDmM0/fit-in/1024x1024/filters:format_auto-!!-:strip_icc-!!-/2018/05/07/155/n/1922564/cfe7e4c39452928f_GettyImages-955778208/i/Ariana-Grande-Met-Gala-Dress-2018.jpg) dress on the suit jacket
> 
> mark's suit: a more masculine version of [this](https://assets.vogue.com/photos/58918e8297a3db337a24b1c0/master/pass/07-dolce-bible.jpg), and of course his [crown](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/3f/23/3f/3f233f3be17cd16b0966fd858455f125.jpg)
> 
> and all the art referenced in the met date:  
> [the roman athlete statue](https://images.metmuseum.org/CRDImages/gr/original/GR792.jpg)  
> this is what i had in mind when mark asked about ancient babies: [duccio's madonna and child](https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/438754)  
> and some examples of white jesus paintings in the met: [madonna of giverny](https://www.metmuseum.org/toah/works-of-art/1983.530/), [the holy family with angels](https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/437458), [virgin and child with four angels](https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/436102)
> 
> finally, as always, i can be reached on [twitter](https://twitter.com/neosveIvet) or [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/loonanator)


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